


Hide and Seek

by Bold_as_Brass



Series: Run To You [2]
Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Action/Adventure, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemy Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Scorpia Rising, Sexual Tension, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-07-27 13:04:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7619200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bold_as_Brass/pseuds/Bold_as_Brass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex can't deny the attraction between them, but Yassen and he are on opposite sides. When their meeting in Istanbul doesn't go according to plan, Alex finds himself caught up in a deadly game of cat and mouse, but who is the hunter and who is the prey?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It took Alex three attempts to find the  _hamam_  but he was still twenty minutes early when he finally arrived. It was a gracious stone building, tucked between a glass and steel office and a Hermes gift shop: Istanbul in a nutshell: the old, the ultra-modern and the commercial, side by side.

The receptionist was a middle-aged woman with bleached platinum hair. She spoke good English, though her expression suggested she would rather be somewhere else. “Self-service or traditional?”

He had spent the previous day researching what to expect. “Traditional.”

“Anything else?”

“No, thanks.”

She handed him a key on a wrist band and a token, and directed him inside.

The entrance hall led into a central courtyard. It rose four floors, the height of the building, surrounded on three sides by wooden changing cubicles. A small fountain played in the centre of the room and the bath’s patrons lounged around low tables drinking glasses of sherbet. An attendant led him to a private cubicle on the first floor and gave him a pair of slippers and a  _peştemal_ \- the thin, cotton towel he was to wear in the baths. He undressed and wrapped the towel around his waist, trying to ignore the churning in his stomach. It had been ten weeks since he had last seen Yassen. Ten weeks during which he’d surfed and danced and laughed and all the while an invisible clock had ticked in his head, counting down to this day. Turning to leave, he caught sight of his reflection in a long mirror on the wall. A summer of surfing had bleached the tips of his hair white blond and given his skin a golden tan. But it was his eyes which caught his attention – dark shadowed and almost feverishly bright. He had slept fitfully the last few nights and it showed. He looked far older than his eighteen years. The sight unsettled him, although he was unsure why. With a shrug, he picked up his token, locked the cubicle and followed the attendant to the baths.

The complex took up the back portion of the building. The first room was pleasantly warm and almost empty, just a long low space, with bare plastered walls and benches along each side. One door led back to the courtyard. A second smaller archway led to the main room. The attendant fetched him a cup of water and left him to acclimatise to the dry heat. He sat obediently, sipping his drink and feeling the pores on his chest and face prickle as they opened. After five minutes impatience got the better of him. He ducked through the archway and followed a long, narrow passageway into the hot room, his slippers slapping on the flagstones as he walked.

The first thing which struck him was the humidity. It slapped him in the face like a physical blow. The air was dim and steamy, thick with the scent of perfumed soap. The only illumination came from the shafts of light which filtered through the steam from dozens of tiny skylights which pierced the domed ceiling high above. When his eyes adjusted, Alex saw he was standing at the entrance to a large circular room. The walls and floor were covered with elaborate marble inlay and a raised stone platform stood in the centre. Dozens of half-naked men sprawled across it, soaking up the sweltering heat. Turkish men, foreigners - men of all shapes and sizes - hairy, smooth, dark and pale - but no Yassen basking in their midst. Marble alcoves lined the room’s perimeter and the sound of bare skin being scrubbed and slapped echoed from their depths. He circled the platform, glancing into each one as he passed but saw no one he recognised.

Swallowing down disappointment he sat on the edge of the platform facing the main entrance, expecting every moment to see a pale figure gliding through the steam. The men around him chatted in a dozen languages, periodically dousing their skin with cold water. No one paid him any heed. After fifteen minutes his skin was slick with sweat and his hair curling from the humidity. An overweight attendant wearing only a loose pair of shorts appeared, took his token, and led him into one of the alcoves. There he scrubbed Alex from head to toe with a woven cloth, humming throaty folk songs all the while. The sensation was similar to being rasped by a cat’s tongue, halfway between pleasant and painful. When he was clean enough to squeak, the attendant motioned him to lie on the warm central slab, lathered up a sponge and gave him an energetic, foamy pummelling topped off by a vigorous sluicing with ice-cold water, before leaving him to recover.

Feeling rather as though he’d been put through a hot wash cycle, Alex wiped water from his eyes and waited another fifteen minutes, his gaze riveted on the entrance archway. His muscles had softened and loosened with the heat, but his mind refused to settle. It was almost an hour past their agreed meeting time and there was still no sign of Yassen. Had he forgotten, or had he decided the pleasure of Alex’s company wasn’t worth the risk? The thought made him feel hollow inside, but as the minutes ticked by, disappointment mutated into a sick weight in the pit of his stomach. Something had gone wrong. For all Yassen’s talk of retirement, a contract killer never really quit. He forced down his growing sense of dread and made himself think. There was nothing he could do while he was in the _hamam_ \- he needed to access an encrypted terminal. His security clearance gave him access to an intelligence network which spanned the globe. If something had happened to Yassen there would be signs - activity in the underworld as new players jockeyed for position. He pulled the  _peştemal_  tighter around his waist and stood up, already mapping out the quickest route to the nearest safe house.

As he stood, an attendant hurried to intercept him. “You have a massage now.”

Alex shook his head. “Not me.”

“Oil massage,” the attendant said.

“I didn’t order a massage.”

“Alex Rider?”

“Yes.”

“Oil massage,” the attendant repeated stubbornly, and beckoned him forward.

“No, I-” Alex said, before his brain caught up with his mouth. He hadn’t ordered a massage, but perhaps someone else had. He let the attendant rinse him with tepid water, and followed him to a row of small rooms on the second floor. A lean figure waited within the first and Alex’s heart lifted with sudden, piercing joy, but when the figure turned to face him, it was not Yassen but a stranger.

It was his first professional massage and it proceeded mostly in silence. He found the experience slippery and a little awkward, but on balance preferable to the scrubbing which had preceded it. Afterwards the masseur guided him to his cubicle and brought him a cup of apple tea. He sipped it thoughtfully while he dressed. Dread had been replaced by puzzlement. If Yassen had arranged for the massage, where was he? And if he hadn't, who had? As he pulled on his shorts something sharp grazed his leg. When he turned out the pockets he found he was holding a business card. An address and time had been written on the back in small, neat capitals. He checked his phone - half an hour to spare. It would be tight, but he could make it.

“Bastard,” he muttered, dizzy with relief.

* * *

 

He found Yassen at last in a tea garden overlooking the Bosphorus, an oasis of green tucked behind Topkapı Palace. Though it was September the air was still warm, the residual heat of the city rising around them. Yassen was drinking a grenadine and soda, the red syrup diluted to a fluorescent orange fizz. Alex might have hesitated to order something so flamboyant, but even in blue jeans and an open-necked shirt Yassen projected an aura which said he would drink what he liked.

Alex took a seat and ordered a beer. After weeks of waiting, it was strange to see Yassen in the flesh. He was smaller than Alex remembered - a compact figure sitting motionless among the flocks of brightly-dressed tourists. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses and for the first time since Alex had known him he was sporting a light tan: his skin the same pale gold as his hair. Yassen returned his scrutiny and all of a sudden Alex’s long shorts and flip-flops, so perfect for the Californian beach, felt scruffy and out of place.

“Are you growing your hair?” Yassen said eventually.

“No,” he lied, and brushed the dangling strands from his eyes. “I forgot to get it cut.”

“Oh.” The silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable. “How was the sauna? Did you like it?”

“It was all right.” Did Yassen know how eagerly he’d been waiting? If so, his expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts. “They scrubbed me with a brillo pad. I feel very clean.”

“And the massage?”

“Fine.”

“Good,” said Yassen, and stirred the shaved ice into his drink. Alex watched and did his best not to fidget. He had the sneaking impression Yassen was amused by his unease. It was hot with the sun beating down on his unprotected head. The sauna had washed away his deodorant and sweat was trickling down his sides and soaking into his shorts. Yassen seemed unbothered by the heat; the epitome of glacial cool. “Did you have a good summer?” he continued, when the grenadine was prepared to his satisfaction.

“Yeah, I went surfing. I-” Alex hesitated but he’d promised himself he’d say it. “I had a lot of sex.”

He had – a lot. Sex with girls. Sex with guys. Sex numerous times in a day. If he’d ever been worried about not having had enough sex, he wasn’t any more.

Yassen just nodded as though he’d said he’d been to a lot of parties. “And was it nice?” he enquired.

“It was fine,” said Alex. “Great.” He hadn’t thought he was going to die once. It had been restful in a way; but he wasn’t sure he’d want to do it again in a hurry. Two months of sun, sex and surfing had left him with blond streaks, abs of steel and homesick for British drizzle.

“Good.”

The beer arrived in a stubby brown bottle. Efes, the local brand. Alex took a sip. It was darker and more bitter than he was used to. He wondered if he should have ordered a Coke instead, but it would look stupid if he changed his mind. He took a second, larger sip and saw Yassen raise an eyebrow. Suddenly self-conscious, he put the bottle down.

“How was your summer?” he said desperately. He’d imagined their reunion playing out in many ways. None of them had been this excruciatingly awkward.

“Oh, fine,” said Yassen. “It was fine.” He turned the beer bottle so he could see the label, then picked it up and took a mouthful, putting his mouth where Alex had put his.

“That’s my beer.”

Yassen shrugged and took another deliberate swallow. “It’s not good to drink alcohol so soon after a sauna.”

“Can I have yours then, if you’re going to drink mine?”

“Yes.” Yassen pushed his glass across the table.

The grenadine was sweetly acidic and icy cold. It felt better for his aching head than the Efes. “Did you do anything exciting?”

“Sightseeing,” Yassen said.

“Sounds fun.”

“Not as much fun as you, I think: sunning yourself on the beach in your little red trunks.”

Alex took a mouthful of grenadine before he spoke. “How did you know they were red?”

Yassen wrapped his hand around the beer bottle and leaned back in his seat. “Shall I tell you a story, Alex?”

“No. Tell me the truth.”

“The truth?” Yassen considered. “You weren’t easy to find. Whoever is hiding you, they have done a good job. But your girlfriend is a little too exuberant.”

“Girlfriend?” said Alex.

“The one who was with you on Air Force One.”

Sabina. “She’s not my girlfriend, she’s…” he hesitated, uncertain how to continue. The last thing she needed was to be pulled back into this life.

“You sent her a postcard,” Yassen said, as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Yes.” A naked surfer, hiding his modesty behind a bar of sex wax - he’d thought it would appeal to her sense of humour. But he’d routed it through two mail drops - no one should have been able to trace its origin.

“She liked it,” said Yassen. “She liked it so much she showed it to all her friends in the University cafeteria. She told them you were surfing in Santa Cruz.”

He winced. “It’s been four years,” he said. “People forget.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Yassen said. “It’s always the people. Sooner or later somebody will make a mistake.” He took another pull of beer and looked out across the Golden Horn. The blue of the water reflected in his sunglasses. The warm breeze ruffled his hair and tugged at the open collar of his shirt. Alex could see the long scar that ran down his neck. Seven kisses long. “When I got to Santa Cruz it was easy. You had quite the fan club.”

It hadn’t been like that. There had been a group of them, about twenty, casual friends. Surfing during the day, playing their guitars around the campfire at night. It had been fun to hang out with people his own age, but he didn't think he would make a habit of it. They had been so carefree. So unmarked by life. They made Alex feel old.

“I didn’t see you,” he said.

“I didn’t want you to.”

“You didn’t want to drop by and say hello?”

Yassen shrugged. “I’m too old to spend summer in a tent.”

Alex took a deep breath. “I’ve got a room now,” he said. “In a hotel.”

“That’s good.”

“It’s near the University. Over the other side of the park.”

“I know where it is.”

“Do you want to see it?”

There was a pause, then Yassen took off his sunglasses and folded them into his shirt pocket. Against his tan his pale eyes seemed almost luminous and Alex saw with surprise that he was good-looking. He hadn’t realised. Yassen was clever, intense, always the most dangerous person in the room. It didn’t seem fair that he should be handsome too.

“You’re inviting me to your room?”

Alex nodded. It was so far from smooth it wasn’t even funny but there had been certain ideas he wanted to convey - his bedroom and Yassen being the main ones - and he'd managed that.

“Now?”

The thought of sitting on his bed, waiting to see if Yassen would turn up made him feel sick with nerves. “Yes.”

Yassen lifted his hand. From nowhere, a waiter appeared at his shoulder. Without breaking eye contact, Yassen opened his wallet and handed him a note. “Let’s go.”

“You haven’t finished your drink.”

“I don’t want it.”

* * *

 

The pavements around Sultanahmet were a testament to the Turkish love of white marble, but narrow and uneven, and made narrower still by the chairs and tables which spilled from the numerous cafés. They walked in single file; Alex led the way. He nearly didn't make it - one of Istanbul’s suicidal taxis swerved across two lanes of traffic to pick up a fare and almost ran him down. He had stepped into the road to avoid a street vendor; the first he knew of it was the screech of brakes and Yassen pulling him to safety. A line of heat ran along his arm as a wing mirror brushed his skin.

“That is the fifth time I have saved your life,” Yassen observed.

Alex rubbed his arm and didn’t answer. On another day he might have retorted that sending him to fight a bull didn’t count, but the sun was reflecting off the marble into his eyes, and the air was heavy with traffic fumes and the smell of grilled meat. His stomach rolled and he tasted grenadine.

Yassen missed nothing. “Have you had too much sun?”

“I was fine in California.”

“City heat is different.” Yassen took a left turn, into a quiet side street, heading down towards the water. “My hotel is nearer. We can go there.”

The idea was profoundly tempting. If he said yes, Yassen would take charge. He would steer Alex through the crowded streets and bring him to rest in a quietly luxurious hotel. His room would have air conditioning, a large bath, soft towels, smooth, cool sheets. They would order room service and spend the afternoon in bed, indulging every appetite, satisfying every desire. But even as he imagined the scene, Alex knew it couldn’t happen. It would be so easy to lose himself in that world, become nothing more than a plaything - a toy which Yassen picked up when he was bored and put down when he was weary. If he didn’t assert himself now it would be too late. Yassen would own him, body and mind.

Yassen looked around at his hesitation. “Alex?”

He was still holding Alex by the arm, his fingers resting just above the elbow. In itself, the action wasn’t out of place - Turkish men were more tactile than their Western counterparts, it wasn’t unusual to see friends walking arm in arm - but with Yassen there was no such thing as a casual gesture.

“Let’s go to mine,” he said and peeled Yassen’s fingers gently away.

A crease appeared between Yassen’s eyebrows. “Why?”

Admitting the truth wasn’t an option. He cast about for a persuasive argument, and found one ready-made. “I packed my swimming trunks.”

“The red ones?”

He nodded.

“Huh.” It was only a soft exhalation of breath but it told Alex all he needed to know. He was not the only one who had indulged in solitary late-night fantasy. “Will you wear them for me?”

Hot blood rose in his face at the thought of being dressed for Yassen’s enjoyment. “Would you like that?”

“Yes.” The answer was absolute. He had forgotten how direct Yassen could be about stating his desires.

“Then it’s this way,” he turned down the main street towards the University. He didn’t need to look behind to know Yassen would follow.

 

* * *

 

Alex’s hotel was a small, family-run business. The proprietor claimed the building was over five hundred years old and it had certainly had the electrics to match. After the heat of the day, the reception was cool and dim, smelling faintly of old stone and antique carpets. Long _sedirs_ , traditional Turkish bench seating, ran along the walls. It should have been a relief to be out of the sun but the oppressive atmosphere only increased his nausea, the weight of centuries pressing down on his head. He wondered if it was too late to change his mind, plead illness and send Yassen away, but the die had already been cast. Yassen pushed him onto a bench and went to speak to the owner. A minute later he was back, holding a room key by its brightly crocheted tag.

“I said you were my cousin and had taken ill from the heat. She will send someone to bring tea.”

Alex nodded, too queasy to argue. 

Yassen held out his hand and hauled him to his feet. “You’ve grown again,” he accused once Alex was upright.

He smiled despite the pounding in his head. “I’ll try to stop.”

His room was on the top floor. It wasn’t expensive, but he’d picked it carefully. It had a en-suite bathroom with a tiny shower and a double bed, but its main glory was the view: a pair of narrow windows looking out towards the Blue Mosque. A huge antique wardrobe took up one wall, taller than Alex. It was so massive he could only think the room had been built around it. There was no air conditioning but the walls were thick stone and kept out the worst of the sun. A fan hung from the ceiling, languidly stirring the tepid air. Yassen turned it to full, then went to the windows and opened them, letting in what little breeze there was.

A large carafe of water waited on the bedside table, provided by the hotel to help temper the effects of the heat. Alex poured himself a glass with an unsteady hand, and took a mouthful. It was luke-warm but it settled his stomach.

“I should wash,” Yassen said, turning from admiring the view. “Join me?”

“Sit down for a second,” Alex said. “I need to show you something first.”

“You’re bossy today,” Yassen said but he went to sit on the bed, kicking off his shoes and stretching out his legs. “What is it – the shorts?”

“No.”

“A tattoo?”

“No.”

“Oh - a piercing?”

Alex shook his head.

“What then?” said Yassen, the humour fading from his voice. “What is it? What’s bothering you, Sasha?”

Alex swallowed at the unexpected diminutive. “Yassen…”

At the word, three men entered the room. One stepped from the wardrobe, two from the bathroom. They were in dressed in civilian clothes but they were holding Heckler & Koch Mark 23 semi-automatic pistols, fitted with suppressors, the service weapon of the United States Special Operations Command.

“Hands up, Mr Gregorovich,” said one. He had a Pacific North West accent and his name was Hicks. He hadn’t told Alex his first name and Alex hadn’t asked. The other two were called Conway and Kidd. They were both from Kentucky and Alex got them mixed up.

Yassen lifted his hands, his eyes never leaving Alex’s. “A honey trap?”

Alex couldn’t answer - guilt had coated the back of his throat with acid - but his silence was admission enough.

“It’s always the people,” Yassen said reflectively.

Before he could say more, there was a knock on the door. Hicks held up his hand for silence and moved towards it. Kidd and Conway fanned out, keeping their weapons trained on Yassen.

 _“Çay?”_ a woman’s voice called - one of the chambermaids. “Sir? Your tea.”

Yassen’s eyes flicked around the room, assessing their respective positions. “It’s open,” he said.

There was a split second’s pause, then several things happened in quick succession. The door swung open; the chambermaid about to walk into the middle of an armed confrontation. 

Hicks slammed it shut with the full force of his body. “Miss, no!”

There was a crash of falling crockery as the tea tray upended and a woman’s cry of pain as scalding water caught her skin. Kidd and Conway turned instinctively towards the sound. In the same instant, Yassen swept his arm across the bedside table, caught up the carafe and threw it towards the spinning fan. It smashed on one of the blades, showering the room with broken glass. Alex ducked and when he looked up Yassen was on his feet and halfway to the window. He saw Hicks raise his pistol. There was a flash of light and a muffled bang. The chambermaid screamed for a second time. When his vision cleared, Yassen had vanished and the room was full of dust. A chunk of plaster had fallen from the wall exposing the bare stone beneath.

“Did we get him?” said Hicks, raising his voice to be heard over the chambermaid’s sobs.

One of the Kentuckians, Conway, Alex thought, looked out of the window. “I don't think so, sir.”

“What do you mean, you don't think so?”

“I don't see him.”

Hicks muttered an expletive and elbowed him out of the way. “Why didn’t you lock the door?” he snarled at Alex.

“He’d have known,” Alex said. “He already suspected something was wrong.” 

Nausea threatened to overwhelm him, but he swallowed it back. It was too late now for regret. He went to the other widow and looked out. Conway was right - there was no broken body lying in the street. The wall was blank and unadorned, just a sheer five story drop. He leaned forward until his shoulders jammed in the window frame. There was nothing to either side but when he looked up he caught sight of a drainage spout, five centimetres long, almost hidden under layers of paint. He reached and caught it on the second attempt. From there it was another metre to the railings which surrounded the roof terrace.

“He went up,” he said. “He swung out from the pipe, kicked up the wall and caught the railings.”

Conway came to join him. “No way. Not unless he can fly.”

Alex measured the distance with his eye. For a non-climber it would be suicide, but for Yassen - fast, light and committed – it was on the borders of possibility. “Do you have a better idea?”

Hicks was already out of the door, hurdling over the crouching chambermaid. Conway and Alex followed. The only way to the terrace was from the reception. They hurtled down the stairs, bowling startled guests out of their way, and raced back up the second flight. When they reached the roof it was empty. The tables had been set for dinner but there was no sign of any disturbance. Alex ran to the railing above his bedroom and looked down into the street. From this angle the water spout was invisible, but there was nowhere else for Yassen to have gone – no neighbouring balconies and the adjacent buildings were smooth walled. He had jumped through the window and vanished into thin air.

“Here!” Hicks called. He was standing in the centre of the terrace, pointing at the floor. There was blood on the tiling, a long, narrow splash, already starting to dry in the heat. “Bullet must have ricocheted.”

Conway took a sterile swab from his trouser pocket and knelt to recover the stain. Hicks and Alex continued to search. Between them they found a second splash, five metres away and a smear on the handrail of the fire escape which led to the street below. The conclusion was obvious. Yassen had sprinted, barefoot and bleeding, across the roof and disappeared into the heart of Istanbul. They were in the oldest part of the city, a maze of winding streets and narrow alleys. With a five minute start, their chances of finding him were nil.

“Did you get his address?” Hicks asked. He spoke with a little more restraint now Alex’s theory had proved right.

Alex remembered Yassen’s attempted diversion on the way to the hotel. “No, but it’s within half a mile of Gülhane Park. Probably four or five star.”

It was a start - better than trying to track Yassen on foot. They returned to Alex’s room to find Kidd had managed to console the chambermaid and clean up most of the broken glass. Yassen’s shoes were still on the floor by the bed: two neat leather loafers. Seeing them Alex felt his gorge rise. This time the urge was unstoppable. He barely made it to the bathroom before everything came up: the grenadine, his breakfast, and when that was gone, the bile from his stomach. He retched until his throat sore and tears streamed from his eyes, then collapsed onto the bed. The Americans paid him no attention. Kidd was on the phone to the Turkish Gendarmerie and Conway and Hicks were on laptops pulling up the guest lists of likely hotels. Alex didn’t offer to help. His relief at Yassen's survival had turned into sick apprehension. They had no idea what they were up against. There was no need to mount a search. Yassen could not, would not, let this betrayal go unpunished. Alex was a danger to him now - a weakness he would have to eliminate. They didn’t need to find Yassen; Yassen would find them.


	2. Chapter 2

There were nineteen hotels near Gülhane Park which met their criteria. Kidd hit lucky on the fifth attempt. A single male traveller matching Yassen’s description had checked into the Grand Ottoman Hotel the previous night. The receptionist confirmed he had been in his early thirties, spoken good Turkish and carried only hand luggage. It was his hair she remembered best - _yakışıklı_ , she said - handsome. By the time Kidd hung up it was mid-afternoon, morning in the US. Hicks sent a request up the chain of command to seek permission from the Turkish authorities to search the hotel room. The confirmation took over an hour to arrive and they left Alex’s hotel just as the rush hour traffic was reaching its peak. Conway drove, hunched over the steering wheel, muttering that he’d been on operation in Cambodia, DR Congo and Karachi and never seen anything like it. They’d hired a SUV at the airport to carry the four of them and and their kit. It had air-conditioning and good suspension but it was too wide for Istanbul’s narrow streets. It took almost an hour to travel three miles.

The hotel was a modern glass-fronted building. According to the manager, it was primarily used by business executives, staying on the company coin, and couples on luxury breaks. Inside it was an uneasy mixture of stainless steel and heavy antique furniture as though aiming to cater to both groups, and failing to please either. The rooms however, were large and well appointed. Yassen’s was on the seventh floor. It had a king sized bed with a soft white duvet, a plasma screen television, a minibar, and private balcony with a view over the park. A Do Not Disturb sign hung from the door and the housekeeping staff confirmed no one had been in to make up the room. It didn’t take them long to search. A pair of dark jeans and a pair of smart trousers hung in the wardrobe next to two white T-shirts, a shirt and a grey cashmere jersey. Under the bed a neat carry-on suitcase held a pair of trainers and a pair of brown leather shoes. Workout gear, four pairs of black socks and six pairs of dark underwear were piled neatly in the chest of drawers. None of the clothes had their labels attached. The contents of the bathroom were sparser yet. An unscented deodorant, a tube of toothpaste and toothbrush had been neatly lined up on the counter, all generic brands. A new washbag hung from the bathroom door. It held a disposable razor, a comb, a second toothbrush, a box of condoms and a bottle of personal lubricant. The condoms and the lube were both unopened. When the manager arrived to open the safe they found an EU passport bearing Yassen’s photograph in the name of Franc Matoh, a Slovenian architect from Ljubljana; a credit card, also in the name of Matoh; and an envelope of Turkish Lira. An alarm clock and a Nokia phone charger completed their haul.

That was everything. Other than the passport there was no ID or personal documentation. There were no weapons or ammunition, and no laptop or mobile phone. Franc Matoh had checked in to the Grand Ottoman at nine the previous night. At nine twenty he had ordered an omelette and a salad from room service and drunk a bottle of water from the minibar. That morning he had signed into the hotel gym at six and signed out again at seven thirty. A towel hung up to dry on the towel rail suggested he had showered in his room. At seven forty five he had reappeared in the hotel restaurant where he’d eaten breakfast alone, the waiter recollected tea, yoghurt and fruit. The transaction history from the electronic entry system showed his door had last been swiped open at six minutes past eight. Blurry CCTV from the foyer had captured a fair-haired man leaving the hotel at eight fifteen. Franc Matoh had not been seen since.

“Not here on a job,” Hicks concluded, surveying the small pile of belongings stacked upon the bed. No one mentioned the condoms. “Did he fly in on the Matoh passport?”

Kidd was already on the phone to the Border Gendarmerie. “Came in via Belgrade,” he said when he was done.

“And before that?”

Kidd began dialling again. Conway was carrying out an inventory of the items, packaging each into its own tamper evident bag. For want of something better to do, Alex carried out a second search, trying to think as Yassen would. He had some success: the alarm clock contained a mechanism for detecting bugs and he found a noise activated digital recorder lodged down the side of the minibar. The only sound it had recorded followed their entry into the room. There was a something else too; he wasn’t sure what to make of it: a crumpled navy blue T-shirt wadded up between the bed and the wall. He pulled it free and shook out the creases. Unlike Yassen’s other garments there was a small embroidered logo on the left sleeve. West Coast Surf. He placed it among the other items without comment. He’d bought a T-shirt very similar in California, but it had gone astray. By the time he’d finished, Kidd had more information for them. The Matoh identity had appeared for the first time yesterday afternoon at Belgrade airport where he had purchased an open return ticket to Istanbul, using the credit card they had found in the safe. Both card and passport were registered to an architecture firm in Ljubljana. For the sake of completeness, Conway emailed a scanned copy of the passport to the senior partner. The response was prompt, polite and absolute: no one of Matoh’s name or appearance had ever been employed by the firm.

“All right,” said Hicks staring at the passport as though it might yield an insight as to Yassen’s whereabouts. “Let’s get his picture circulated to border control.”

Alex sighed inwardly. There wasn’t much point. Yassen rarely bothered with official border crossings, preferring to travel by submarine, private plane or chartered yacht. When Hicks looked up, he realised he hadn’t been as quiet as he thought. 

“Something to say?” he said, making no effort to disguise his dislike.

Alex shook his head. There was no point in starting a fight. Hicks might be abrasive but he wasn’t stupid. He knew as well as Alex that they had reached a dead end. There was no telling where Yassen was now and no knowing what he might do next.

 

* * *

 

Yassen didn’t return to his hotel. It was not the first time he had been shot at, nor the first time he had been betrayed by someone he trusted. It would take a far more calamitous series of events to overwrite decades of ingrained caution. From the roof terrace he had seen the dual minarets of a nearby mosque. He had torn down the fire escape, barely registering the hot metal searing the soles of his feet, and raced through the narrow streets towards it. In a few minutes he had reached a main thoroughfare. The mosque stood directly opposite. Blood was dripping down his arm and his ears were ringing from the gunshot. The urge to keep running was strong but he took a breath, put on his sunglasses and made himself stroll towards the nearest crossing point. Such was his air of nonchalance that none of the scores of pedestrians noticed he was bare foot. One or two of the more observant saw the rusty stains on his sleeve and wondered, briefly, if they could be blood, but they soon dismissed the idea. A bleeding man would ask for help or show signs of distress. This blond haired tourist was doing neither and therefore, they reasoned, it could not be blood which streaked his skin. He must have spilled a slushy drink or had an unfortunate accident with ketchup bottle. At the crossing, he looked back along the street. There was no disturbance in the ebb and flow of the pedestrians to suggest he had a tail. He waited for the traffic lights to change, then tagged on to a group of Spanish tourists with matching backpacks and followed them into the mosque compound.

The mosque was surrounded by a large courtyard of dusty grass and low, spreading trees. Fountains played around a central pavilion, a place for the faithful to perform their ablutions. He rinsed the blood from his skin and assessed the damage. The bullet had not hit him, but a piece of flying plaster had gouged a deep chunk out of the flesh of his shoulder. It would need dressing in due course but the blood had already started to clot. The Spanish tourists were still outside the main entrance, being lectured by their guide on the architectural innovations of the building. He waited until the lecture was complete then followed them into the mosque. Shelving by the door provided a place where visitors could store their shoes. In the midst of the mass unbuckling and unlacing he picked a pair of trainers in his size and slipped away. A small arcade of shops and cafés lay beyond the gardens, a collection of businesses which paid rent to the mosque. He took a seat, and ordered a Turkish coffee. He preferred tea, but his body needed both the caffeine and the sugar. The adrenaline of his escape had worn off. Pain and shock were making their effects felt. Every instinct told him to keep moving, leave the compound, leave Istanbul, leave Turkey, but he overruled them with icy efficiency. It was the shock speaking. There was no rush. The city was one of the most densely populated places on earth. Officially, it had nine and a half million inhabitants; unofficially, the number was closer to twenty million. The scale of the discrepancy was matched only by the size of the underground economy which existed to service the shadow city. Here, at the crossroads of Europe and Asia, there was nothing he could not buy – no weapon, equipment or intelligence which was not for sale – and no better place to lose himself in the crowd. His coffee arrived, thick, black and sweet, along with a glass of cold water, and a plate of pale jade, pistachio-studded _lokum_. He ate and drank mechanically, without tasting a thing, and as his shock receded, a cold anger rose in his chest.

He had been duped. Yassen Gregorovich, the man who never made mistakes, had been taken for a fool by an adolescent only just graduated from high school. Alex Rider - as adept as his father in the art of betrayal. Alex Rider, with his shoulders broadened from a summer of surfing and his hair and body burnished by the sun. Sitting in the tea garden, smelling of lemon soap and fresh sweat and the peppery tang of the olive oil the masseuse had rubbed into his skin. Smelling so good it had taken all of Yassen’s self-control not to lunge across the table and bury his face in his neck. Had it been a deliberate ploy to turn up looking so good, smelling so good? Had he chosen the ridiculous long shorts knowing how low they rode on his hips? Had he dampened his T-shirt purposely, so it would cling to his chest? Somehow, Yassen thought not. For all his bravado and boasts of sexual prowess, he was not a practised flirt: wide-eyed, easily shocked, prudish in the way young people sometimes were - still coming to terms with his own sensual nature and his body’s carnal desires. He had sat in the full heat of the sun, damp patches spreading beneath his arms, and when he had seen Yassen mouth the rim of his beer bottle, his eyes had grown round and he had flushed scarlet beneath his tan.

Yassen frowned at the memory. What did it matter if the attraction was mutual? MI6’s golden boy was a man now, and a dangerous one. A threat to his safety and a threat to his self-control. He had broken all his personal rules when he had agreed to go to the hotel, ignored every warning sign and followed him home like a panting dog. For four years he had lived comfortably, doing occasional business as a security consultant for the wealthy few who could afford his fees. He didn’t need the money but the conceit amused him. Who knew better than he the weaknesses which an assassin might exploit? He had a house in St Petersburg, and apartments in Venice, Tokyo, the Bahamas. In the space of an afternoon all that had been taken away. His cover was blown. All his plans, all his years of toil, taken from him. Alex Rider needed to be dealt with, for once and for all, before he made Yassen do something he really regretted. A host of vengeful fantasies flitted through his mind, some violent, some more subtle. He let them come, sifting, assessing, connecting, piecing together the beginnings of a plan.

In the Grand Bazaar he bought a baseball cap to cover his hair and a block of henna to disguise it more permanently. A fake Galatasaray shirt completed his disguise. He put it on as soon as he’d paid and the stall holder joked that he was a Turk now. Yassen allowed himself a wintry smile. That was the point. The gold and purple colours of the team strip were everywhere. His final purchase was a cheap Nokia phone, not for the handset but for the charger which came with it. His purchases complete, he found the nearest internet café, booked a hotel for the night, transferred funds and made a number of enquiries to trusted suppliers. By the time he was done it was early evening. He caught a tram to Eminönü, took a bus over the Galata Bridge and disappeared into the suburbs.

 

* * *

 

It took then another hour to drive from Yassen’s hotel to the safe house. It was a small, grimy apartment in an unfashionable part of the city, made up of a box room barely large enough to hold a single bed, a master bedroom full of Conway’s kit, a cramped bathroom and a lounge containing a kitchenette and a pair of matching horsehair sofas. Kidd went to buy food and returned with traditional Turkish kebabs – meat and salad in a roll of flatbread - and some cans of drink. It was a tense, silent meal. The meat was greasy and the bread had gone hard in the heat of the day. Alex ate the salad and some of the bread and left the rest. His stomach was still sore and he couldn’t work up the appetite for anything more.

Conway and Kidd had no such concerns. They sat side by side on a sofa, chewing methodically through their meal. They were very alike with their broad shoulders and shocks of tow-coloured hair. When they had first been introduced Alex had assumed they were related, but they assured him the similarity was coincidental. He was beginning to distinguish them now. Conway was in charge of the technical side – equipment, forensic recovery and comms. He had a broad face and round, blue eyes; Kidd was the 2IC, and their liaison with the Turkish authorities. His face was narrower and his eyes were a pale green. He said his mother’s family were Turkish. Alex put them both in their mid-to late twenties. Hicks, the team commander, was a different quantity entirely. He was ten years older with dark, wavy hair and a tight, nervous energy. Like Alex he seemed to have little appetite, pacing around the room and glancing out of the windows. He had good reason to be tense. One of the world’s most notorious assassins had just slipped through his fingers. When they had arrived back at the apartment he had shut himself away for half an hour while he reported into Control. From his preoccupied expression, the conversation had not gone well. Alex might have summoned up some sympathy for him, had so much not been at stake. Had his safety not been at stake. As it was, it was difficult not to take a certain dark amusement in the turnaround. In the initial briefing he had taken great pains to emphasise how dangerous Yassen was, how hard to predict. But a lot had changed in the last four years. The world had moved on. Even the most notorious figures faded from memory. Yassen had dropped off the bottom of the CIA’s most wanted list.  _We can handle him,_ Hicks had said and a murmur of agreement had passed around the room. These were men and women who had apprehended some of the most dangerous terrorists on the planet. A retired contract killer wasn't high on their list of priorities. They had listened politely enough, but Alex had seen himself reflected in their eyes. A teenage ex-spy, one of MI6’s less successful experiments, burnt out by the time he was fifteen. Mentally fragile and possibly paranoid. _Let us deal with this_ , they had said, _you take some time off_. He had taken them at their word and now they were all paying the price for that misplaced confidence.

“You’ll be tired, Rider. You can bed down in the box room,” Hicks said as they wrapped up the remains of their congealing meal.

It was a dismissal. It meant they wanted to discuss their next moves without him. If they thought they could apprehend Yassen without his help they were wrong, he knew Yassen better than anyone alive, but Alex didn’t bother to argue. His head was aching from lack of sleep and he was fed up of being excluded and ignored. He had done his part. He had delivered Yassen into their hands and they had let him escape. Let someone else do some work for once.

“Sleep tight, then,” he said and left them to it.

The box room was cramped and airless. It smelt of stale breath and the sole, small window was blocked by a heavy steel shutter but Alex wasn’t fussy. It provided a bed and somewhere private to gather his thoughts. He kicked off his flip flops, stretched out on the top of the sheets and wondered, not for the first time, what he had got himself into.

His return to the US after his night with Yassen had gone smoothly. The embassy had issued him a passport and a plane ticket within hours. For the first part of the journey he had been bolstered by a strange euphoria: Yassen was alive! But as they flew west, chasing the sun, doubts began to surface. Euphoria became bittersweet. Yassen was alive. Yassen, who had saved his life, but who killed without blinking. Yassen, who had worshipped his father, but murdered his uncle. Yassen, who had sent Alex to bring down Scorpia while he had slipped into away into anonymity. Yassen, who claimed to have retired, but how could an assassin ever really retire? When he landed at Washington, a car was waiting at the airport. He expected to be censured for failing to keep his mission covert but the outcome was met with qualified approval. The compound was still burning; Yassen had been thorough in his work. Whatever the authorities there suspected, there was no evidence to build a case for foreign involvement. Alex had given a brief report making no mention of Yassen. He claimed he had been aided in his flight over the border by a sympathetic local guide. Then pleading exhaustion he had retired to sleep.

That night in his narrow bunk the nightmares had returned. It was as though Yassen’s reappearance had unlocked a door in his. Vivid scenes of blood and fire haunted his sleep: Jack, his uncle, his parents. He had returned to the Pleasure’s house in San Francisco pale and withdrawn. He hoped to find solace amongst family and friends, but the change of scenery hadn’t helped. The dreams continued every night, waking him in a cold sweat huddled in the corner of his room. When a week had gone by and he was beginning to hallucinate from lack of sleep, he knew he had to do something or risk losing his sanity. He sent an encrypted message to his handlers telling them he had something to say. That night he slept for an unbroken twelve hours.

The debriefing had taken three days. They didn’t call it an interrogation but Alex knew one when he saw one. He told them about the meeting on the rooftop. He said Yassen had kidnapped him and forced him and he had pretended to like it to save his skin. He said he hadn’t told them before because he had been so ashamed. They believed him because it was what they expected to hear. They thought it was shame which caused him to hesitate and his voice to falter. In a way they were right, but they were mistaken about the cause. He was not telling them the whole truth about what passed between him and Yassen. There were some things they didn’t need to know. Though he knew he was an accomplished liar his easy facility for deceit still surprised him. It was as though there were two Alexes. The teenager who liked football and was taking a year out before college, and the hard-eyed man who lived within him, and watched him perform.

Alex stared at the ceiling and sighed. He knew he had made the right decision. Yassen was dangerous and amoral: he was duty-bound to bring him to justice if he could. But his conscience still troubled him. Perhaps it was just that he was questioning his choices now the operation had gone bad. But in his heart, he knew it was more than that. His reasons for acting as he had, had little to do with justice or public security, and everything to do with his own personal demons. He ran his fingers through his hair and sat up. He should wash then sleep while he had the chance.

On his way to the bathroom he saw Hicks and Kidd were kneeling on the floor in the living room, examining a map. They stopped talking when they saw him so he shrugged and left them to it. He was in the bathroom when he realised his washbag was still in his case. Rather than run the gauntlet of suspicious eyes for a second time, he squeezed toothpaste onto his finger and cleaned his teeth as best he could. He was rinsing his mouth when he felt his phone buzz in his back pocket. Alex frowned, puzzled. Only his immediate team had the number. Were Hicks and Kidd texting him from the living room? Why?

 _Alex._  

Number withheld. He scrolled down expecting more, but that was it - just his name - a single, cryptic word.

“You going to be much longer, Rider?” Conway called from the hallway.

He shoved the phone into his pocket with a guilty start. “Almost done.”

Back in the box room he lay down and closed his eyes, trying to make sense of the text. Every instinct told him it was from Yassen, but how? He remembered the Nokia phone charger in Yassen’s room. A charger, but no phone. Yassen must have the mobile with him still. He had gone into Alex’s cubicle that morning while he had been in the sauna and left the business card in his pocket. While he was there he had must have noticed Alex’s mobile. He could have called his own phone from it, so he had the number. Alex pulled up his outgoing call list. Sure enough it was empty, though he knew he had called the  _hamam_  that morning to confirm it was open. His theory was right. Yassen had phoned his own number then deleted the record. Now, for whatever reason, he had decided to make contact. He was on his feet, about to call for Hicks, when the phone buzzed again.

_Sweet dreams._

Alex looked at the message, then sat back on the bed. An olive branch or a veiled threat? Knowing Yassen it was more likely the latter. But one thing was certain. This wasn’t just business. An assassin never made contact. Yassen was telling him something. Letting him know he had a very personal stake in this game. He lay awake, waiting to see if there would be more but the phone remained stubbornly silent. When morning came he was still staring dry-eyed at the screen. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Alone in his cheap hotel room, Yassen washed the laceration on his shoulder then draped a thin towel around his neck and coloured his hair and eyebrows, working with practised efficiency. He left the dye on for half the recommended time. When it was dry his hair was an undistinguished mouse, not dark enough to look incongruous against his skin tone, but different enough from his natural colour to avoid attracting attention. His eyelashes were still too pale but sunglasses would hide them. Satisfied, he went to find something to eat. The hotel was not grand enough to have its own restaurant, but a nearby bar served food while its patrons chain smoked and watched the build up to the UEFA cup on a grainy-screened television. Yassen ate quickly, pizza, salad, a single beer, paying no attention to taste or texture. Pizza was not his favourite food but it was what the men around him were eating, so he ate it too. When he was finished he returned to his room and lay on the narrow bed. His eyes were closed but he was not preparing to sleep. Instead he rested his hands on his stomach and exhaled, concentrating on his surroundings: the sounds of traffic and voices from the bar; the ache in his shoulder and the warm air on his skin; the slight buzz from the alcohol. He brought each sensation into focus, considered it, then let it fade away.

This was not a technique which John Rider had taught him. This was not a method which he had learned at Malagosto, the private island where Scorpia trained its agents. It was a skill he had taught himself in the long hours when he had waited in hotel rooms, preparing himself for hit. With his eyes closed he would rehearse every stage of his plan, making sure nothing had been forgotten or overlooked. It was the technique which formed the basis of his fearsome reputation.

Tonight though, focus was hard-won. The pain in his shoulder was a constant dull ache and thoughts of Alex Rider haunted his thoughts: the sounds he had made when Yassen touched him, the shape of his mouth. It didn’t surprise him that he found Alex attractive; it didn’t cause him dismay. He was after all, the image of his father and Yassen had found John Rider attractive too, although at nineteen he had not recognised the nature of his feelings. In truth it would have made no difference if he had. He had been so starved for affection he would have worshipped anyone who tossed him a kind word. What surprised him was the constancy of his attraction. He had thought a night would be sufficient to sate his hunger. It was his usual tactic when the prompting of his libido grew too strong to ignore – a hotel room and an open-minded partner, always somebody different, always somebody paid. He treated them well, tipped them generously, and never thought of them again. But this time he had been mistaken. A night had not been enough. Instead it had unleashed an insatiable craving, which had clawed at his insides until it had driven him halfway across the world to sit on a long bench overlooking a beach and watch the waves with hungry eyes.

The train of thought led nowhere helpful. He halted it and considered instead the agents who had been sent to apprehend him. A three-man team. He might have been insulted, but the miscalculation had saved his skin. He pulled up their images one by one. Two younger agents; broad shouldered and white toothed, almost achingly American. One had worn a shiny wedding ring on his left hand. It was he who had fired the only shot, aiming at where Yassen had been, not where he was. It was an error which had cost them the mission. The second had held his weapon as though afraid it might bite him. A pale streak down one thigh suggested he had dripped bleach or hydrogen peroxide on his clothes - a technician rather than a soldier. The third had been older and hard faced. The younger men had looked towards him for direction but Alex had not; his gaze had been fixed on Yassen: his skin ashen beneath his tan and his eyes like bruises. It was a tension which might be exploited.

He filed away the insight and played through the events of the day. The tea garden. Alex sitting opposite him, the wind ruffling his unruly hair. Yassen looked past him, concentrating instead on the tourists who around them, but there was no one who raised his suspicions. He dismissed the image and went further back. Now he was inside the changing cubicle, pausing to press Alex’s T-shirt to his face and catching sight of the mobile phone hidden beneath it. No: further back. He was standing in a gift shop, pretending interest in a fake Hermes scarf - the bright fabric too smooth and even to be anything but artificial - watching in exasperation as Alex walked past for a second time, clearly lost. Further back. Sitting in a café, sipping apple tea in the morning sun and watching the entrance to the _hamam_. A metallic silver SUV, incongruous amongst Istanbul’s battered cars and motorbikes, gliding down the narrow road and turning into a side street. A faint frown crossed Yassen’s forehead. He leapt forward in time. Walking behind Alex, watching his shorts slide low on his hips. A flash of yellow at the corner of his eye and a burst of adrenaline. Dragging Alex to safety from the path of the taxi. And yes, there: behind them, almost unnoticed at the time, a squeal of brakes. A silver SUV slamming to a halt to avoid a collision.

He ran back through his memories, starting this time with his arrival into Istanbul, but no SUV reappeared to stalk his movements. If there was a link, it was to Alex, not him. He returned to the walk to the hotel. No SUV had followed them along the busy streets. No SUV parked in front of the hotel. Now they were in the hotel room. Alex staring at him, guilt stamped across his face. Yassen skimmed over that memory, refusing to linger. Now he was sprinting across the roof terrace, hurdling over chairs, fire in his shoulder, the two minarets of the mosque shining on the horizon. Racing down the fire escape and there below him, a silver SUV. He had run past without stopping. Now, he looked closer. Close enough to see the blue Ford badge on its front grill. Close enough to see a barcode sticker on the windshield: a rental car.

Yassen took a deep breath and opened his eyes. The car was Alex’s back up; it had followed him to the tea garden then overtaken them on the return to the hotel. Night had fallen while he had lain motionless on the bed. It was too late now to begin his search, but tomorrow he would narrow the options. As memory receded, reality returned. His shoulder hurt and for once he felt his age. His injuries needed more than soap and water. Tomorrow, he would have to find medical supplies and treat it properly but there was one more thing he needed to do before he slept. The Americans had orders to apprehend him, but that mission had failed. It wouldn’t do for them to leave now before he had an opportunity to retaliate. He pulled out his mobile and sent a text to Alex’s phone. Let them make of it what they would. It would be sufficient to tell them that Yassen Gregorovich was still alive, still a threat. Alex was not the only one who could use the lure of his presence as bait. The symmetry of the conceit pleased him. He selected another memory, a favourite this time, and considered it dispassionately. Alex on the beach, unzipping his wetsuit, laughing as he ran a hand through his wet hair, the salt water beading on his golden skin. So happy. So carefree. Sweet dreams, Alex Rider, he thought. Enjoy your last night on earth. He sent a second text and fell asleep with a smile on his lips.

 

* * *

 

“Shall I tell you a story, Alex?”

The words awoke him from a dreamless sleep. The first thing he saw was a graceful pendant chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He lying on a bed in a room he didn’t recognise. It wasn’t a hotel. The walls were sage green, not the off-beige beloved by interior designers, and there were family photographs on the walls. The furniture was dark polished wood and the bedstead was made of dull brass. When he turned his head he could see a strand of aspen trees through the single tall window, their bright green foliage just beginning to turn gold. He wondered how long he had been asleep. He wasn’t sure he was still in Istanbul. He wasn’t sure he was still in Turkey. The only familiar thing was Yassen standing at the base of the bed, dressed in black, his hair as pale as flax in the slanting afternoon sun.

“Where am I?” Alex whispered, through dusty lips.

“Shall I tell you a story?” Yassen said again, as though he hadn’t spoken. “About what happens to people who can’t be trusted?”

Alex felt a jolt of alarm cut through his lethargy. He already knew what Yassen did to people he didn’t trust. The first time he had seen Yassen, the Russian had shot a man dead for dropping a container of smallpox virus.He tried to sit and found his body didn’t obey his command, all his movements slowed to a lethargic crawl; as if he was swimming through syrup. Yassen watched him struggle for a moment then walked along the side of the bed with a noiseless tread. As he moved closer Alex saw that he wasn’t carrying a weapon. But that didn’t matter. Yassen could kill him with a twist of the wrist if he wanted, or a simple pillow over his face.

“What happened to the others?” he said, trying to keep his voice calm, but he knew as he spoke that Conway, Kidd and Hicks were most likely dead and their bodies disposed of.

For a moment Yassen stood looking down at him, his eyes intent on Alex’s face as though attempting to commit each feature to memory. “It is a shame,” he said eventually.

Alex’s blood ran cold. “What is?”

“When you’re still so young,” Yassen said simply. He sat on the side of the bed and brushed a lock of hair from Alex’s forehead.

“I can explain,” Alex said desperately. “Yassen, listen. Let me explain.”

“Sh.” Yassen placed a finger across his lips. “No more words.”

He studied Alex’s expression then leant forward, so close Alex could see the golden tips to his eyelashes and smell his scent strange and yet at the same time familiar: soap, gun oil, black tea. His thumb rubbed across Alex’s lower lip and he felt small hairs on the back of his neck rise even though he couldn’t move.

For a second nothing happened, then Yassen kissed him.

There was no tenderness to the moment. Yassen’s mouth was hot and fierce, not coaxing out a response, but demanding one. His hand slipped to Alex’s throat, tilting his head to the right angle and the kiss deepened as though he was starved for the taste of him, devouring his mouth. His eyes were open, pale as ice. Alex could see the desire which glittered in their depths and felt his body stir in response. No one else wanted him like Yassen wanted him. It was addictive and dangerous. It made him feel alive and dizzy and breathless. Yassen , leaned closer, his mouth hard and biting. Too late, Alex realised his shortness of breath wasn’t just desire. Yassen’s hand tightened around his throat, his fingers as hard as steel, utterly implacable. He was stealing the air from Alex’s lungs and giving him nothing back. Slow spinning circles of light exploded behind his eyes as he fought to breathe. His muscles wouldn’t obey him. He knew he should be scared. He was going to die, the life choked from his lungs, but as the sweet euphoria of oxygen starvation washed through his body, he found he didn’t care. Black roses blossomed in the centre of his vision. When oblivion came he welcomed it.

 

* * *

 

Alex took a deep, shuddering breath and opened his eyes. He was alone in the box room, his mobile still clutched in his hand. His heart was pounding, his skin was covered with a light sheen of sweat and he was hard. He cursed and pushed a hand through his hair. He was getting too old for dreams like this. He was tempted to stay in the room and jerk off, furtive and guilty. But when he checked the time he saw it was getting late. He had slept almost three hours, but no one had come to wake him. Reluctantly, he rolled to his feet and went into the corridor. Fortunately his shorts were loose enough to hide his condition.

“Rider!” Hicks called from the living room. He had his hands on his hips and a sour expression on his face. Any residual relief Alex felt at seeing him alive vanished. “Come over here.”

Alex tugged his T-shirt down self-consciously and went to join him. He found all three of the Americans standing in silence around the coffee table. A brown paper evidence bag lay upon it. On top of the bag was a key with a black casing and a long flat silver blade.

“Conway found this in the lining of the washbag,” said Hicks. He didn’t have to specify whose washbag. “What do you make of it?”

Alex bent closer. It looked like a standard key fob with two buttons to lock and unlock a car. There was nothing particularly unusual about it that he could see, apart from the lack of logo. “It’s a car key,” he said slowly.

Hicks gave a short angry nod. “Does he drive, Gregorovich?”

Alex thought back to the buggy, speeding them across the dunes to the border. “Yeah.”

“Why would he keep it in his washbag?”

“I don’t know.”

It wasn’t what Hicks wanted to hear. “You sure about that?”

“Yes,” Alex said. He forced his voice to stay level. His position in the team was precarious enough without losing his temper. “Why?”

“Just that you and he seem pretty close.”

“’Close,’” Alex repeated. “Is that what they told you?”

There was an awkward pause. “No,” said Hicks eventually, with grace to look uncomfortable. “I mean, we know, we saw-”

“We read the debriefing,” Conway interjected.

“Okay,” said Alex. “Then what makes you think we’re close?”   

The Americans exchanged a glance “It’s the toothbrush,” Kidd said eventually.

“What?”

“Condoms, lube,” said Kidd, “those I get. But he brought you a new toothbrush, so you can freshen up? That’s not just a sex thing. That’s the kind of thing my wife did when we were dating. That’s the kind of thing you do for your sweetheart, you know?”

Alex frowned. “It’s not like that. He’s a bit of a clean freak.”

“Sure,” Kidd said. He didn’t sound sure.

“Look,” Alex tried again. “He’s obsessed. He sees his younger self in me. Maybe he thought we were an item. I don’t know. It’s not easy to tell what Yassen thinks.”

“And what about you?” said Hicks.

“What about me?”

“You were pretty keen to get onto this job. Most guys, something like that happens, they’d never want to see him again.”

“He killed my uncle,” Alex said. “My only living family. I owe him for that.”

It was true. But nothing in Alex’s life was ever simple. Four years after Ian Rider’s death, his uncle’s motives remained an enigma. He had trained Alex for the life of a spy from the age of three, apparently never once considering whether that was something Alex would want, or enjoy. Of all the adults in his life, only two people had seemed to recognise how messed that was: Jack Starbright and Yassen Gregorovich. And Jack was dead.

“Yeah,” said Hicks, after a heavy silence. “Okay.”

“Was that everything?”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” said Alex. He went to his case and retrieved his washbag and clean underwear. He hadn’t packed much – the plan had been for three of them to fly out with Yassen in their custody, while Kidd stayed behind to pack up the apartment.

“Do you need some clothes?” Conway said unexpectedly.

“Do you have any?”

“Think I can loan you a couple of things.”

Alex hadn’t been in the main bedroom before. It was set up like a cross between a comms centre and a science lab and it reminded his a little of Smithers. A bank of monitors hummed in one corner and a row of fridges in another. The bed had been pushed up against the far wall. Unlike the box room it had a window and an asthmatic air conditioning unit.

“Don’t take Hicks too much to heart,” Conway said, pulling items out of his kit bag. “He’s a good guy; he’s just not used to someone your age working in the field.”

Alex said nothing. He would lay good money that he had as much field experience as either Conway or Kidd.

“He thinks you’ve got the makings of a good agent, though,” Conway continued.

“Funny way of showing it,” Alex muttered.

Conway diplomatically pretended not to hear. “Here you go.” He threw Alex a pair of jeans and a clean shirt. “Try not to get blood on them, okay?”

Alex gave a reluctant smile. “I’ll do my best.”

In the bathroom, he took a quick shower, dried himself on his T-Shirt and put on fresh clothes. His head was dull and fuzzy from lack of sleep but he felt better for being clean. Back in the living room he found Conway and Hicks had gone out and Kidd was wearing a pair of headphones and watching something on his laptop. When he saw Alex looking, he angled away the screen.

Alex ate breakfast on his own. He didn’t mind, he was used to it.

 

* * *

 

There were thirty-three car rental companies in central Istanbul, but only twelve offered SUVs and only five of those Fords. Yassen started with the most obvious choice: the rental counter at the international airport, and struck lucky first time. He knew before he entered the arrivals hall that the chances were good: the fleet was parked in numbered bays across the road from, all the vehicles an identical shade of metallic silver. The assistant at the booth was very apologetic in response to his inquiry. They only had two Ford Explorers at this branch and both were booked out until Friday. If a large vehicle was required, he could offer a Ford Galaxy as an alternative? Yassen retreated, claiming he would need to make a phone call and took up position in a nearby café. Over the next half hour he watched as the two assistants checked personal details, filled out paperwork and issued keys. The booking system was online but desk only had one computer terminal and large queues built up as new flights arrived. The staff kept a paper record too: a large A4 diary where they noted down which keys they’d issued, and used the lulls between flights to update the computer.

It was a practical solution implemented in good faith to ensure they gave their customers the promptest possible service. Over the years Yassen had found many security breaches were caused by people only trying to do their job. Had he been employed by the company he would have suggested they rethink their processes. But it was not his problem. At the airport newsagent he purchased a black A4 diary and a copy of _Le Monde_. The morning flight from Frankfurt had touched down ten minutes previously and the first of the disembarking passengers were passing into the arrivals area. He returned to the desk and asked a series of complicated questions about the Ford Galaxy. When the assistant bent to retrieve the information pack he leant over the counter and, using the newspaper to shield his actions, swapped the two books. It was done in a second, without any drama or fuss. He flipped through the ring binder for a few moments then returned it, pronouncing the Galaxy unsuitable. The queue behind him had already begun to build up. The harassed assistant barely spared him a second glance before turning to greet the next customer.

He waited until he was in a taxi before flicking through the diary. The car rental staff noted only the vehicle details but the details of the people who collected the keys. He found one of the Ford Explorers almost immediately. It had been rented to a German couple, Herr and Frau [Richter](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richter_\(surname\)), the previous day. They had collected it at noon which meant it was unlikely to be the car he had seen at the hamam. He made a note of the registration anyway and paged backwards. Details of the second Explorer took longer to locate. They were almost in the city centre by the time he found them. The vehicle had been leased the previous Monday, eight days ago, to a Mr Allen. He had collected it at six thirty in the morning. The name was irrelevant, but the timing was suggestive. The daily flight from Washington Dulles arrived at five fifty-five. The taxi was pulling into their destination, a long street, lined with shady trees and dotted with internet cafes and small shops. Yassen wrote down the registration, paid the driver and got out.

Istanbul’s remarkable location is the source of its historic power. The Bosphorus strait which connects the Mediterranean to the Black Sea, divides the city into a European and Asian sides. This position allowed it to command the trade routes between Europe and Asia, giving the city an influence in religion, architecture, art, and literature unparalled in Europe for over a thousand years. The road network is vast, sprawling, covering thousands of kilometres, but there are there are two suspension bridges which span the divide between Europe and Asia, and only two. Two pinch points through which all traffic has to pass to traverse the city. The Bosphorus Bridge leads to the centre while the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge several kilometres to the north, skirts the worst of the built up areas. Both have electronic toll collection systems, the HGS. Cars passage captured by number-plate recognition. The assistant at the rental company had explained to Yassen how it worked: each of their vehicles was already registered to the system and he would pay any accumulated tolls when he returned the keys.

Yassen was not a computer hacker but he knew where to find the expertise he needed. The challenge he posted to an anonymous bulletin board was simple in the extreme. He offered no monetary reward, just the satisfaction of being the first to deliver. Who could hack into Istanbul’s HGS and provide a list of the vehicles which had crossed the Bosphorous over the previous week? The files were online by midday posting with a gloating comment about the ease of the task. Scrolling through them, he saw the Richter's vehicle had yet to cross either bridge, tourists perhaps, still settling in to their holiday routine. Allen’s vehicle though, had crossed the strait multiple times over the previous week, always returning in the evening to the Asian side. Yesterday it had crossed the bridge into the European side at a little after seven in the morning. Ten minutes later he had seen an identical vehicle by the _hamam_. The cameras had registered the last crossing only that morning, over to Europe at ten o’clock.

Yassen closed down his connection to the proxy server and considered. The information told him three things. The first was not particularly helpful: the American’s base must be on the Asian side of the city, away from the tourist areas. That narrowed the search area but it would still take him a lifetime to cover. The second was more interesting. The vehicle was active; it appeared the mission was still live. The Americans knew he had been injured and must be banking on that slowing him down. But it was the third thing which was the most important. The vehicle only ever took one route, the most straightforward, across the Bosphorus Bridge into the heart of the city. It was an understandable decision - who would want to drive further than they had to in Istanbul traffic? But the men Alex was working with could not afford to have such predictable habits. Perhaps they had been poorly trained. Perhaps they had forgotten what they had been taught. It didn’t matter either way. in an urban sprawl which spread over five thousand square kilometres they had limited their route to a single stretch of road fifteen hundred metres long.


End file.
